


Despacito

by 61Below



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Asexuality, Coming Out, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, breaking the heteronormative wall, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/61Below/pseuds/61Below
Summary: Three things happened the summer after Eric graduated from Samwell: he moved in with Jack, Marty announced his retirement, and Kent Parson was traded to the Falconers.





	Despacito

**Author's Note:**

> _Slowly_   
>  _I want to breathe your neck slowly_   
>  _Let me tell you things in your ears_   
>  _So that you remember when you're not with me_   
>  _Slowly_   
>  _I want to undress you with kisses slowly_   
>  _Sign the walls of your labrynth_   
>  _And make your whole body a manuscript_   
>  _Turn it up turn it up..... turn it up, turn it up_

Three things happened the summer after Eric graduated from Samwell: he moved in with Jack, Marty announced his retirement, and Kent Parson got traded to the Falconers. Eric found out about the trade on his way to stocking the Nook, when he walked straight into Kent Parson’s chest. 

Parson caught the tupperware on instinct, even through the startled ‘Oof!’ that knocked his snapback clean off his head…a blue snapback. 

Eric’s babbled apologies died on his lips, and he could tell the instant that Parson recognized him too, because his charming smirk slipped right into shock, and they stared at each other for a horrified moment. 

Then, from behind Parson, Tater yelled, “Is B? B! You’re back! What are you bringing today?”

Eric tore his eyes from Parson’s (so wide, so green) and he had to tug to get his boxes back. Then he slipped past, through the door, and called to Tater with his brightest smile, “Hulk Bombs! Somethin’ new for Griggs and Oh-yay, so they won’t feel left out anymore.” The poor backup goalie, Anton Grigoritch, had a peanut allergy, and their new Finnish defenseman, Olli Ojala, had a wheat allergy so Eric had been experimenting with new ingredients. He popped a lid and the scent of buttered, toasted pecans filled the nook, and the other Falcs hanging around rushed the table. Quick as a flash, Tater swiped one before Eric could finish plating them up, and he groaned into his bite. Eric explained over the din, “These are just almond flour, coconut oil, egg—lots of egg, salt, toasted pecans, and sunbutter, so they’re not sweet! But I kind of liked the savory—“

Then Tater cried, “Is green!” and Eric laughed.

“Right? Imagine my surprise the first time I made them! It’s something to do with the sunbutter, they turn bright green once they come out the oven.” He waved off the chorus of thanks as hockey players twice his size jostled each other to get theirs while they were still warm. 

“How was Madison?” Snowy asked as he elbowed the rookies out of the way. “Did you say hi to Aunt Judy for us?” 

“Y’all are fixin’ to get me disowned!” Eric cried. “She may or may not have sent me off with blackberries from her own bramble—” 

Snowy groaned through his bite. 

“Is Zimmboni with you?” Tater asked, mouth full. 

And Eric, hyperaware as Parson finally edged his way to the table, kept his voice steady. “Ah, he’s still up in New York for that Adidas photoshoot. He’ll be home tonight, though.”

Parson’s eyebrows shot up, but then he’d also just taken his first bite, so, and Eric quickly turned his attention back to Tater, who was already reaching for a third. 

“Now, you do not need reminding about the Rule of Three, right, Mr. Mashkov?” 

Tater just smiled beatifically. “Of course not, B.” And he ate half the muffin in one bite. 

Eric leveled him with a look as the rest of the Falcs present laughed. 

“The Rule of Three?” Parson asked the closest Falc, like he didn’t want to intrude. 

Poots said through a mouthful, “Three helpings only, til everyone’s had their turn. Then all’s fair. Otherwise it’s an automatic $500 fine, but somethings go up to a grand, like if it’s anything blueberry, and pie privileges are revoked for a week.” Then Poots asked Eric, “Hey, can we get the anything-maple-apple dropped back off the double-penalty list? Now that Zimms can get it whenever he wants?” 

Eric blushed and he could feel Parson staring, so he hedged, “You’ll have to take it up with Jack, he’s the A.” 

Poots just groaned, and Tetris called in Quebecois, “ _Nice try, kid_ ,” over more laughter. 

Then Tater clapped a massive hand on Parson’s shoulder (Eric couldn’t help but recognize that aborted flinch) and boomed, “New guy, learn quick.” Then he ruffled Parson's Falcs’ snapback and added, “But you two don’t look like you’re needing introductions? For you, Kent Parson, no need. But you? This is B, Eric Bittle, Zimmboni’s—”

Eric interrupted, “We’ve met.” Parson’s face shuttered, so he added, “But it’s nice to meet you again, erm, under these circumstances. Looks like congratulations are in order?” 

Parson smiled stiffly. 

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Kent Parson’s now a Falconer._

Finally, he finished unpacking the (several dozen) muffins and stacked the empty tupperware boxes, saying, “Alright boys, I better get into the office. I’ll have that new Outlook calendar set up for jam requests sometime this week, just so y’all know to look for it.” The chorus of yesses and fist pumps warmed his soul. 

Then Parson asked quietly, “Let me help with these?”

“Oh! You don’t need to—” Eric protested.

“Please? I was on my way to the front office next anyway.” Parson already held the boxes, so Eric nodded and held the door for him. The Falcs all chimed goodbyes, and then they were alone in the hallway. 

“So—” Parson started, but didn’t continue.

Oh Lord, this was hell. Eric walked through the halls as quickly as he could and fought the urge to run.

“Bittle, from Samwell, right?” Parson asked, cool and unaffected and so infuriatingly confident. 

“Yep. That’s me,” Eric answered stiffly.

Then Parson sniped, “So, like, what are you doing here?” 

“Uh, I _work_ here.” Eric jangled his staff ID on his Falcs lanyard. 

Parson sneered. “Oh, I see. Riding Zimms’ coat-tails, got it.” 

Eric bristled, _how dare this—_ His hands shook he was so angry, and he hissed, “What, you couldn’t convince Jack to join your merry band of brawlers, so you’re, what? Trying to corner him here, too?” 

“You have _no ide_ —” Parson started to snarl, but Eric just turned away with a shrug.

“I really couldn’t care. I’m sure the higher ups had their reasons.” The he stopped again and looked Parson dead in the eye for the first time. “But know this: if you ever come at Jack like that again, like you did at Epikegster? Well—” He turned away, shoulders rolled back, neck arched and looking like the epitome of grace, and added, “just...bless your heart, Kent Parson.”

Parson stared, then smiled wide, like he finally had his feet under him again. “Fair.”

“Don’t you doubt me, Mr. Parson.” Eric glared, taken aback by his shift in manner. 

Parson’s smile grew even wider. “Not on my life.” Then he started walking again. 

“I mean it!” Eric snapped as he trotted to keep up. Damn this boy and his—his poise. He wanted to shake him til his perfect teeth rattled. 

Parson drawled back, “Oh, I’ve no doubt! I just finally see exactly how it is: beneath your goodies and bow-ties—” he waved one handed at his ‘I-have-a-grown-up-desk-job-now’ attire, “you’re really a petty asshole at heart. And they never see it coming! It’s great.” He smiled, all sharp teeth. “God, it’s like you two are made for each other.”

Eric’s rage froze. “What are you talking about.”

Parson stepped into his space, trying to loom. “Don’t even try to front—”

But then a gaggle of office staff stepped out of accounting, right on time for their morning break, and the two sprang apart. A few coworkers called, ‘Hey Eric!’s as they passed, and Eric smiled back, face pleasant and open once more. Then they were off en masse, a phalanx of suits in new walking shoes, hustling through the halls. 

Parson stared in horror. “What…the fuck?”

Eric looked at his watch and hummed, “Mm-hm, right on time. The Wellness Program’s summer walk-a-thon started a coupla weeks ago, and they’ve teamed up to take down HR. Try to stay out of the hallways around 9:45, for future reference?” Then he squared his shoulders and tried to tug his tupperware out of Parson’s grip. Again, he wouldn’t let go. Ugh!

“Ugh!” Parson huffed. “Look, whatever. I’m an asshole, you’re an asshole, and Zimms’ an asshole, too, is all I’m saying. But we’re all on the same team now—” he nodded down at Eric’s Falconers lanyard and staff ID, “Figuratively. So…truce?”

Eric glared. “Ugh.” He started walking again, using his staff ID to swipe through a set of doors to another hallway. 

“Hey, look, I was trying to compliment you! It’s just refreshing to know you’re not as perfect as you try to pretend to be.” Eric felt the epic stink-eye contort his face, but Parson continued, “Aw, ‘tsa matter, don’t like having your sweet apple pie persona slandered like that?” Parson smirked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“You’d know that best, wouldn’t you?” Eric sniped. 

Kent barked out a sharp laugh. They’d reached a cubicle bank, and now there were more and more people around. “I think we’ll get along just fine, kid.” He smirked wider at the way his brown eyes flashed, and pressed again, “So. Truce?” 

Eric bristled for a moment, but now they had an audience, and he saw how Parson knew there were witnesses. He spared one thought to appreciate how Parson had manipulated them into this position and slipped into his best after-church-social-hour smile. “Of course. Truce.” Then he stuck out a hand. 

Parson had to shift the tupperware into his other arm. _What a petty little shit, god!_ He grinned as Bittle tried to crush his hand. 

Then he asked cheerfully, “So besides nepotism, how’d you end up here?” 

“Oh my god!” Bittle tried to snatch back his tupperware again, and this time Parson held it over his head. 

Eric stepped on his foot, and Parson only _giggled_. This boy! Then he opened the door for his office and ushered Parson in, declaring with utter dignity, “I am one of the coordinators for the youth program.”

Kent stopped teasing and cried, “Oh my god, that is so _wholesome!_ ” Something in his gut twisted at the thought of him on the ice, holding a stick, surrounded by tiny sprogs in their first gear—

But Eric mistook his tone and bristled. “I was a camp counselor for years—!” And he knew, he knew people made assumptions about him, and it wasn’t like he wasn’t out to the Falcs, but to have anyone doubt that he couldn’t work with kids because of that— 

“No, no! Just—damn,” Parson looked a bit dazed, actually, so Eric shut up. “I’ve no doubt that you’re really good at it. I, ah—” He rubbed the back of his neck, all pretense dropped. “I was real involved with the Little Aces, you know? So, like, if you ever need anything, let me know.” 

Eric looked up at him, _really_ looked at him, searching his face hard. Then he sighed, “Bless your heart, Kent Parson. You like to pretend you’re a charmer with a black heart, don’t you?” 

Parson froze, pinned by how he suddenly felt flayed open, at how quickly Bittle’d gotten past his defenses, _fuck_. 

Bittle added sweetly, like he wasn’t the most dangerous person Parson had ever met, “You’ve got it all backwards, sugar. Now, would it hurt to ever let anyone know that you’re secretly a softie underneath?” Then he pulled the tupperware out of his hands. 

Parson blinked down at him, then looked away, shoulders hunched. “So, look, I—”

Eric hastily cried, “No, look, I—”

But Parson brushed a hand down his face. “Bittle, I—no, let me say it.” He stopped and shut his eyes. “We met under shit circumstances, on one of my wo—when I was at my worst. So, like, I would like to—I mean, no. I do apologize. For what I said that night.”

Eric looked up at him, not as far as he normally had to when dealing with all these hockey players all day long, and he saw just how very off-kilter Parson looked. What did it have to feel like to get uprooted like that? To be thrown to the people who’d spent years trying very hard to rough you up before? The precarious nature of the NHL had never seemed more real before. It made his teeth itch. 

After a long moment, Eric rubbed his temples. “Look, I appreciate your apology. Thank you. But I’m not the one who needs to hear it.”

“Fair.” Parson’s voice had gone so quiet, and he looked away. “Annnnd on that note, I’m out.” He tried to wave his thumb at the door and—

Eric sighed. “Give me your phone.” He set the tupperware on his desk.

“—What?” Parson’s step stuttered. 

Eric held out a grabby hand. “Give me. Your. Phone.” Parson did. “You call me if you need help settling in.” Bittle’s phone buzzed with a new text notification. “Where are you staying now? Have you found your own place yet?”

"I'm in a hotel for now, but—Bittle, you don’t have to do this.”

Eric waved a hand as he handed Parson back his phone. “It’s not just you. It’s not for just you, you know? Jack’s got the A, and all that. So we’re used to helping folks settle in, get up to speed, to really feel like part of the team, you know? We’ve even got one of the rooks billeting with us. Shells? I don’t know if you’ve met him yet, he wasn’t in the Nook.”

Parson blinked rapidly and whispered, “You’re—you’re living together? And the team knows?”

Eric eyed him sidelong and replied slowly, “Yeeeah? It’s not like we weren’t roommates for two years. And then Mr. ‘I-have-a-history-major-and-I’m-going-to-use-it’ went and bought that house, so of course there’s room—”

“Eric, can you—oh!” Another small, energetic blonde poked her head in his doorway, but she froze when she saw Kent Parson. “Sorry!” 

Eric waved that off. “What’s up, Mel?” 

“We finally heard back from that athletic director at—oh,” she waved a hand wildly around her face. “Just, stop by my office when you’re free?” Then she nodded and disappeared. 

Eric grinned hopefully and spun in place, telling Parson, “Oh! Oh good. Maybe now we can finally get that skate bank going in the elementary schools.” But then he shook himself, glanced at the cheerful wall clock, and said, “I’d better get to work then. I’m only part-time over the summer, but the Mites’ camp is coming up in a few weeks, so if you’re serious about your offer, I’ll be in touch Mr. Parson! I’m serious, though. Call me. I can get you in touch with Jack’s realtor, she’s wonderful and’s worked with other Falcs, too. A bunch of guys are still living in that apartment building next to the river, so it’s right on the trails, right? Perfect for morning jogs, and that café on the corner makes the. best. eggs benedict—”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know,” Kent cut in. 

“—Right.” Bittle looked a bit sheepish. “Well, I’m glad we got to talking, Mr. Parson. And let me know!”

\---

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease ∙ 10 Jul 2017  
@therealkvp Congratulations and welcome to the newest Falconer! #goPVDFalcs 

Kent stared at his phone, peddling harder while he listened to Tater educate the new rookies about Bittle’s pies like the kid was the Second Coming. There were _bylaws_ about the etiquette of who could have what when, and the way they—worshiped this guy grated over something raw in his chest. 

**Kent Parson Official** @therealkvp ∙ 10 Jul 2017  
@omgcheckplease thx. so when do i get some welcome pie? #thisismyjam

Then Crouse & Houser burst into the weightroom, and Kent put his phone away to watch the new entertainment. 

\---

That night, Kent stared up at the ceiling of his hotel room, with his room service dinner sitting heavy in his gut. His mind reeled from meeting some of his new teammates as _teammates_ for the first time, not as rivals, and he wondered again if he was making the worst mistake of his life. He missed Kit. The room was too quiet. Then his phone rang. He craned his neck, but ugh. Somehow it’d ended up all the way across the room. It rang twice as he debated whether it was worth getting up for, because he was sick of dealing with not only his upset Aces but also their concerted silences, too, but— ugh. 

He rolled out of bed and caught the call right before it went to voicemail, “Yo.”

There was a pause on the other end, and he checked to see that he’d actually picked up, and huh, that was a number not in his contacts. Then he heard, “Hey Kenny.”

He sat down hard on the too-plush hotel bed. “Hey Zimms.”

Neither of them said anything else for the longest time, then Kent could hear rustling on the other end. Then Zimms said, “So, euh, welcome to the Falcs, eh?” 

The laughter that burst out of his chest startled him, and when he got hold of himself once more, Kent said, “Oh ya sure eh. Thanks though.”

The line was quiet once more, and god, when had they gotten so bad at words?

He shut his eyes. He knew when, and he knew why. 

Then Zimms tried again. “So, euh, Bittle said you had something to say to me?” 

Kent sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Always so shoot-from-the-hip… but yeah, he’d waited long enough. So they were doing this now. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I—” His voice got tight, and he took a long breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for cornering you and for the shit I said to get back at you, but—fuck. Jack, I was so mad at you. Do you understand that? I hurt you, and I’m sorry, but you hurt me too, and—” his voice broke, like he was goddamn seventeen again, and he shut his mouth with a snap. 

“Yeah,” Zimms said quietly. “I’m sorry, too.”

Kent breathed. He breathed. He’d spent so long holding onto this— had wasted so many years wanting to make Jack hurt, but now? He shut his eyes and let himself just _feel_. It wasn’t alright yet, but it was a hell of a lot better. Then he tried to laugh, “That Bittle sure is a spitfire, huh?”

Zimms huffed out that same old monotone, “Haha. Yeah, he is.”

Kent hummed. “Must be a real force of nature to get you to talk to me, after all this time.”

Zimms didn’t laugh now, though, which was what Kent had been trying for, so he was about to try to take it all back— ok in hindsight, chirping his ex about his current boyfriend wasn’t—

“Kenny, I should have apologized a long time ago. And I’m sorry for that, too.”

He absolutely bit down on the whimper trying to fly out his throat. 

“I shouldn’t have shut you out like that, but _crisse_ —I couldn’t take it, not at the time. Not with you—” Zimms huffed and took a deep breath. Kent could still keep the count. “You got everything I ever wanted, and I couldn’t stand it—”

“Zimms, n—” Kent tried to interrupt, but—

“No, let me finish. Please. I couldn’t stand it, but how fair was that? I was so afraid of not being able to live up to my dad, then so afraid I’d never match up to you, you know? But— shit, what kind of worthless asshole can’t even be happy for their friends— _let alone_ their friends, not even counting what we were? Fuck.” He huffed out a harsh breath, and Kent could almost see the way he’d be pacing. “So. I’m sorry. You did so much. You fucking killed it out there, and I want you to know that I am so proud of you. And I’m fucking excited to get to light it up with you this season, now, too.”

Kent let out one harsh sob, and then he clapped a hand over his mouth. This was too much— how was he supposed to— he’d spent years trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, and it wasn’t even—? god, he—? what even _was_ Jack Zimmermann? Once he got his breathing back under control, he croaked, “Thanks, bud.”

Zimms hummed and let him regain his composure. 

Kent snorted, but something wasn’t sitting right. He sighed and decided he may as well bite the bullet. “Zimms? About what you said, about how you thought I’d gotten everything?” Zimms hummed again and Kent twisted the comforter in his free hand. “I really, really didn’t. And at the same time, I’m so—so _fucking_ glad you didn’t go to the Aces—” he froze and heard Zimms suck in a breath, and he realized too late how that had sounded, so he scrambled, “Not like that, shit, fuck, no. I mean, they would have been utter shit for you, Zimms. I’m glad you never had to go through that—the—through the toxic fucking—” he broke off and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. 

Zimms asked quietly, “What happened, Kenny?” 

He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I know that the league is fucked up, that we’re commodities to be used, exploited til the vein’s run dry, but–no, it’s maybe, god—fucking _hopefully_ it’s better here at least, but—everybody has their breaking point somewhere, right? And I couldn’t take their shit anymore. I couldn’t stay with an organization that—not—not after—” He grit his teeth when his voice gave out again, fuck.

Then Zimms said in his Most Captain captain voice, god _damn_ it, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

Kent twisted his hand into his hair. “I told them that I wanted a timeline for coming out, and they fucking balked. They balked so fucking hard they flipped themselves back out of their metaphorical chairs, and then they tried to shut me down. They were going to take away my C, because _nobody_ could listen to a goddamn fucking queer—”

“That’s bullshit,” Zimms cut into his tirade, before he could quote anymore of their spouted bigotry. “That’s awful, and it’s wrong. Kent, you are an excellent leader, you—”

“Yeah, I know it’s bullshit, it’s why I told them to let me talk or let me walk. My contract was up at the end of next season anyway, at least this way they could fucking profit off my defection.” Ugh, the bile rising at the back of his throat tasted so bitter. He pushed up to standing and went to get water. “There were a couple-a teams asking, you know? But the Falcs—the Falcs’ve teamed up so much with You Can Play, and with Georgia Martin—” He bit his tongue before he could put his foot in his mouth. “Well, I’d hoped it’d be better here, so here I am.” Then a horrible thought occurred to him, and he babbled, “I didn’t mean to just spring this on you, and I’m not trying to corner you on your own turf or anything, I just—”

“You’re not,” Zimms just said calmly. 

“—This just moved so fast, I haven't even had the chance to look for a new place yet—” 

“Bittle told me he told you about the realtor—”

“—Let alone try to track down your contact info again, to talk it over with you and—“

“ _Kenny._ ”

Kent stopped. 

Zimms said softly, “You don’t need my—my permission, or something, to live your life, okay?”

Kent insisted, “Yeah, but this affects you, too, and—“

“Kenny. You do not need my permission to live your life. I need you to tell me you understand this.”

His mouth was too dry. How? He took a sip and tried again. “I understand.”

“Thank you. Now. If you still decide that you do want to come out, I will support the everloving fuck out of you, okay? I’ll deal with the shit that comes my own way, don’t worry about that bit.” 

Kent took a shakey breath, hands numb with shock and relief and release, like, fuck. “Thanks,” he whispered. Now, how was he going to be able to ask this without fucking up this fragile new peace? “So, uh, do the Falcs know about you? About you and—” and he couldn’t, couldn’t finish that sentence.

Zimms was quiet for a moment, then said, “No.”

Kent blinked. “But…they know about Bittle?” How could anyone not figure that out?

“Oh. Oh yeah, he’s out,” Zimms said, smirk evident even over the phone.

Kent flapped a hand in frustration, “No, I mean, about—” He still couldn’t say it, why couldn’t he say it? _He still didn’t really want to admit that it was true._ “—about the whole living together thing?”

“Euh, they know I have a roommate?” Zimm’s acting had gotten way better, because that sounded like some genuine, grade-a confusion right there. 

Then it clicked. “Ah, gotcha.” So that was the line they were using. 

Zimms took it a step further by asking a little angrily, “Did you think that they’d be upset that I’m friends with a gay man? _Crisse_ , Kenny, no. They’re not like that. And of course, there’s already no homophobic shit allowed in our lockerroom, so you won’t have to listen to any of that from your own teammates, and Tater will take great pleasure taking out anyone who spits shit on the ice. He likes Bittle better than the rest of us combined, I think. So. If you do come out, we’ll have your back.”

Kent pursed his lips, thinking that this all sounded a bit hypocritical, but then again Zimms had always been far more private than he was. So sure, whatever. But this was all so many lightyears ahead of where he’d been in Vegas, either way. 

After another long pause, Zimms changed the topic, “Bittle told me to tell you you’re invited over for dinner tomorrow, if you’re free.”

“’zat so?” Kent hedged. “And am I going to find that Bittle’s word is law around here?” 

“Haha. Pretty much, yeah.” Zimms’ voice was soft even over the phone. “Bits also wants to know what your favorite pie is.”

Kent snorted. “What’ll happen if I tell him cake?” 

And again, that same dry, “Haha,” that had once been his whole reason for living, back before he’d learned that letting that happen was such a bad idea— “I’ll be sure to tell him and let you deal with the fallout.”

Belatedly, Kent realized it was probably a Very Bad Idea to bait this guy, so he laughed a little frantically, “Wait, Zimms, no, I was just chirping you, don’t let me mess with him if he’d legit be upset—”

Zimms just snorted. “No, he can give back as good as he gets. Just know that you brought this on yourself.”

Kent groaned through his laughter. 

\---

He skated and trained with the Falcs who were still in town, and then Mashkov-call-me-Tater took him out to lunch at a little hole-in-the-wall dive in the basement of a sketchy building a few blocks from their facility, and Kent spared a thought to worry if he was going to be offed by the mob. The food was beyond fantastic, but he was having trouble adjusting to this new friendly attitude, and when he flinched one time too many, Tater looked him in the eye and said gravely, “Little mouse, you stop rushing my goalies, and you stop playing dirty hockey where someone could get hurt, then we are friends. You know how it is—on ice, we leave on ice? Yes?” 

Kent wiped his hands on his napkin and looked down, but he nodded. Then he asked a bit hesitantly, “Will you help me get to know this city? I’ve only—well, I went straight from billet families to Vegas, and even then they billeted me with one of the vets my rookie year. So I don’t really know how to adult on my own yet.”

Mash—Tater clapped him on the shoulder and boomed, “Yes, Kent Parson, we’ll make Providence your home soon enough. But have you talked to B yet? He still mothers his—ah, what is his word? –his frogs. Even though he is no longer captain, he will always be captain, no?

Kent blinked. He knew Bittle had played with Zimms (there was no way he’d forget _that—their faces lit up green and the bass thumping in his chest and their faces lit up by each other_ — no—) Captain, though? Of a D1 NCAA team? But— “But he’s so small!” 

Tater just laughed loud and long, and Kent was mortified that _that_ was the response his traitor mouth let out. 

Finally, Tater wiped an eye and got out, “Kent, Kenny, I have bad news for you—” then he laughed again. 

Kent blinked, then laughed too and threw his balled up napkin at him. Tater just caught it, dammit. 

 

Zimms had texted him both their address and the number for this apparently amazing realtor, so he spent the afternoon talking about what he wanted, what he needed, and what he couldn’t stand, and then he was looking over pictures and maps. There wasn’t time to go look at any places yet today, but the Falcs’ groupchat started lighting up with guys chiming in about where was worth being and where to avoid. Then Thirdy started piping in about which neighborhoods had the best schools, and the young bucks chirped him about being ‘Such a *dad*, oh my god’ and it devolved from there. 

God, he didn’t want to think about how much he wanted that—but someday. That just wasn’t in his cards now. Yet. 

It was actually a little harder finding places that would let him rent with Kit, but he wasn’t ready to buy yet. Not because he doubted that he’d be traded soon (though that thought still lingered) but because he wanted to get to know the city better before he committed to something, first.

Then Zimms texted him:  
_I’ve been told to tell you_  
_that you’re not allowed to_  
_show up looking like you’re_  
_about to rob a Burger King_

Kent laughed and tapped back:  


_its like he knows u or smthng_

_No comment_

_omg u still have those  
yellow shoes, don’t you?_

__

__

_…they are good shoes_

Kent snorted and turned back to his suitcase. He was a little annoyed at himself, because he knew _exactly_ what to wear, but it was stuck back in Vegas. He had a feeling that Bittle would be able to properly appreciate Armani in a way that Zimms never could (and he offered up a prayer for Alicia like always whenever Zimms and style ever came up). He settled on salmon shorts and a white button-down shirt, but ugh, the watch that would work best with this was back in Vegas, too. So this would have to work. 

He told himself firmly that he didn’t need to have to try this hard to impress them. 

…Who was he fucking kidding?

He fiddled with his cuffs in the taxi, because he’d forgotten to take into account the humidity, and it felt hotter than he’d thought. Finally, he rolled up his sleeves and fought to keep his hands out of his hair. The ride took him beneath ancient, arching trees, past the kinds of mansions built by steel tycoons in the Gilded Age, past manicured lawns and signs proclaiming the National Register of Historic Places, and he realized— ‘Mr. History Major’ indeed—what the fuck? 

Then the taxi dropped him off in front of a sprawling powder blue Victorian, complete with a wraparound porch and a _turret whatthefuck_ , but god…how could a mansion that big still manage to look so cheerful and charming? Geraniums overflowed from every window-box, hydrangeas framed the porch, a tire swing hung from the ancient oak out front, and a pair of American and Canadian flags flew from either side of the porch steps. The whole place looked like a magazine spread. This was the farthest thing from that disgusting hockey frat house, so how did it give off the very same vibe? 

And this was the life Zimms had chosen. Right. Picture-perfect house, picture-perfect spouse—

He’s got this. 

He walked up the steps, saw the porch swing decked out with bright cushions and pillows, took in the gorgeous wood-and-leaded-glass door, took in the busy hummingbird-feeders hanging from every eve—and rang the bell. 

_He so’s not got this, oh god—_

He twisted the bottle of wine so he wouldn’t mess with his hair again, and then Zimms opened the door. He was immediately hit by the smell of something amazing, and they stared at each other for a moment. But god, it was just something to see him again—even out of his gear, he loomed even bigger, and the way he filled out his dress shirt and—Kent shoved the bottle into Zimm’s hands. “Ah, hi! Thank you for inviting me, this is for Bittle. I mean, for you both, but we know you weren’t the one to cook, or—I mean—” 

Zimms just chuckled and grabbed him by the arm to drag him inside. “Hi Kenny, it’s good to see you, too, but shut up, I know how to cook some things—”

“PB&J’s don’t count,” Kent chirped.

“— _but tonight_ is all Bits’ so thank you. _Crisse_ I forgot how much of a dork you are.”

“How much a dork _I_ am? Did you or did you not buy a mansion just because it’s on the National Register?” Kent looked around pointedly, at the high ceilings, the rich woods and intricate tin ceiling tiles, the leaded-glass, and the truly impressive fireplace in the living room they passed.

“I did not, the house itself isn’t on the Register, just the neighborhood—”

“Uh-oh, in that case, you might have to hand over your history-nerd cred, because that’s just not acceptable if the house itself isn’t on the Register too—“ 

Bittle called from the kitchen, “You think you’re chirping, but you’re only givin’ him ideas, Kent Parson, and I did not deal with historically-compliant restoration contractors while trying to finish my thesis just for you to make him want to look for somewhere _more_ registered!” 

They walked into a light-flooded space, and Kent laughed when he saw Bittle shake a wooden spoon at him. “Sup, Bittle?” 

Bittle’s grin got softer, somehow. “Hi Parson.”

God, he was wearing a Samwell apron, and the light coming in through the window over the farmhouse sink just made him glow, how? It was absolutely unfair. He shook himself and ordered himself once more to not make it weird. 

Zimms walked over to show him the bottle. “Look what our guest brought.”

Bittle read the label and beamed over at Kent, and he felt it like a gut punch, _fuck_. “Thank you, Parson. This’ll be perfect with dessert.” He asked Zimms, “Will you put it in the wine cooler, hon?” 

“Sure Bits,” Zimms said in the same tone as Swoops’d tell his wife, ‘Yes, dear,’ and Kent thought he was going to have a heart attack. Zimms slipped past Bittle in a perfectly practiced move, not jostling him as he stirred something on the stove, and lord above, if it wasn’t obvious they’d been lineys—and Kent had seen their Frozen Four run—never mind that that had been their patented Parson-Zimmermann no-look one-timer, these two had done it, too. But even here in their own kitchen, they didn’t touch: no hands on a hip as they slipped past, no shoulder bumps, no temple kisses— if they were holding back because he was here, he wasn’t sure if he was grateful or annoyed. So he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. 

The house was a historic treasure, but this was a completely modern kitchen, with wide marble countertops, a double oven, and an 8-burner range with a copper exhaust hood, and Kent was utterly jealous of that fridge. The space opened up to a wide island and then an even bigger dining table, then a set of french doors opened out onto a patio and flooded the whole space with light—this was a space for entertaining while cooking, and it was the warm heart of this home. 

Bittle saw him looking and said, “Today’s just so lovely that I thought we should eat outside. This’ll be ready in a few minutes, so— but— oh! Where are my manners? Can we get you anything? We’ve got coffee, tea, beer—but there’ll be wine with dinner—”

“Gatorade—” Zimms deadpanned, and Kent snorted as Bittle swatted his bicep.

“—Coconut water if you want to hydrate—”

“Protein shakes—” Zimms giggled when Bittle flapped his hands and shooed him from his kitchen.

Kent grinned as he took stock of what he knew about southern hospitality, and asked for tea. 

Ice clinked musically in his glass when Bittle handed it over, and condensation misted the sides so perfectly it seemed like it had to be photoshopped, or something. Then he took a sip—

He almost moaned, and Bittle looked smug. Zimms laughed at Kent’s expression and said, “It’s always a treat getting to watch people try Bits’ cooking for the first time.”

Kent hid his face in his glass as Bittle called Jack Zimmermann sweet. Then he cast around for a new topic and settled on, “You have a truly beautiful home.” He was reaching into the inane, but he meant it, so that had to count?

Bittle caressed the marble countertops and hummed. “Thank you. And here I’d thought the oven at the Haus was the best gift of my life, but this kitchen?” He sighed with such glowing happiness that Kent’s chest tightened. How was this guy even real?

Zimms chirped, “You act like providing you with the means to cook isn’t anything but pure self-serving selfi—”

“Oh my word, stop! This boy.” Bittle flapped a hand and turned to Kent. “So, three years ago, this one pretends to forget my birthday, and then I get passed from teammate to teammate to keep me occupied and away from the Haus, but I didn’t clue into that I was being handled til they took my phone. Lord! And there I’d thought they were finally getting rid of that awful green couch—”

“Hey I can always talk to Chowder, I’m sure he’d be okay changing his pre-game ritual so we could put it in the den—” Zimms whole face was lit up as he goaded from the island, and Kent snorted at Bittle’s reaction.

“ _Don’t you dare, Mr. Zimmermann!_ ” He turned back to Kent. “But no, he got me a new oven after Betsy—sorry, after the old oven died.” He shook his head, and the sunlight glinted off where his hair flopped over his forehead, and Kent gave out a laugh he hoped didn’t sound as strangled as it felt. 

God, and he’d once thought Bob and Alicia were the example of a perfect couple, but these two? 

Then Zimms added, “And while this house was otherwise perfect, the original kitchen was like a closet. Not acceptable in the least. So I’m really glad they were able to knock out this wall.” He waved at the space where he was sitting at the island and missed the utter heart-eyes Bittle sent his way. 

Kent threw back the rest of his sweet tea like it was whiskey and resigned himself to his fate. 

Then a timer went off, and Bittle burst into action. He pulled something from the oven and ordered, “Bring out the salad and the plates, will you hon?”

Kent reached for the salad bowl before he could even register who that’d been directed at. 

“Oh Kent, no, you’re a guest!” Bittle tried to protest. 

So he leveled his most charming smile at him and said, “It’s the least I can do, for all your cooking.”

Bittle looked flustered and he remembered to dial it back. Zimms grabbed plates and silverware, and Kent followed him outside to a patio table under a cheerful red umbrella. More geraniums spilled from planters, and sunlight streamed through ancient oak trees onto a lush yard. A badminton net was set up across the lawn, and adirondak chairs surrounded a well-used fire pit. The patio bricks radiated heat, but the breeze kept it from getting too oppressive. Kent quickly set the table while Zimms help Bittle bring out dishes: maple-glazed pork tenderloin with brown rice and roasted broccoli, a bottle of white wine, and a pitcher of water with cucumber slices floating with the ice cubes. The salad was a bright, sweet medley with sliced blood oranges and poppyseed dressing, and lord, his stomach growled. 

Bittle smiled and said, “Everything is Nate-the-Nutritionist approved. Well, maybe not dessert, but everything in moderation, and it is the offseason.”

Kent stared at the glistening tenderloin and asked in awe, “Is that real shredded ginger in there?” 

Bittle beamed. “You bet. Here, have some sesame seeds.”

_…Oh god._

Happy satisfaction glowed on Bittle’s face as he and Zimms tucked into their feast, and the sounds of high summer surrounded them: birdsong and kids playing a few yards over and at least one lawnmower—and this, more than anything, made Kent realize that he was finally free from Vegas. 

He breathed. 

This quiet, glowing domesticity here was possible for him, too. 

And the dessert was cherry cheesecake. Bittle’s grin sparkled when Kent relished his first bite, and he realized: the cake is a pie.

_Oh my god._

\---

Time rushed on. He found a condo that would do for now, even if it was a bit too beige, at least the light poured in, and the view from the balcony was pretty. For a moment, he thought about flying back to Vegas to get all his affairs in order, but then he decided against it. Swoops was in BC for the summer, and there…really wasn’t anyone else left there that he was close enough to to justify the headache. So he threw money at the problem and got a moving company to deal with it. Kit was so pissed at him she hid for the entire weekend. Then she wouldn’t deign to look at him til he bought a set of wall-mounted cat tracks so she could climb all over the beige room. Her new favorite place became a sheepskin hammock in the center of the massive bank of windows. He set up bird feeders on his balcony, but put up those window-clings that people can’t see but birds could so that none of them would break their necks on the glass.

 **Kit Purrson Official** @therealkit ∙ 16 Jul 2017  
Home sweet home #nofilter  


\---

The press surrounding the announcement of his trade was brutal, and he’d forgotten what it was like to live back on the East Coast, where people actually did give a damn about hockey. It was weird to get papped just going to Whole Foods, and he’d never signed so many autographs just out on the street before. Then Oh-yay started inviting him to go running in the mornings, and suddenly people were less likely to approach when he was with a 6’7 blonde who looked like he just stepped off the set of a vikings documentary. Was it the beard? Or the shoulder-length hair? Or the thousand-yard stare? It got even better when they figured out that they both spoke better Russian than the Finn spoke English, so that was fun. Nothing sounded more intimidating than mangled Russian. Then Tater found out, and he took them out to a real Russian bar for real vodka. That was even more fun… until it wasn’t.

Bittle found him in the Nook the next day, shook his head with a smirk, and handed him a frighteningly green smoothie in a hard plastic travel cup. 

“Ei _tippa_ tapa,” Oh-yay moaned next to him. Kent clinked his smoothie to his water bottle. 

\---

The only thing worse than training hungover was training hungover while trying to keep his eyes off Jack _freaking_ Zimmermann, and the way his stupid hair flopped in his eyes when he was flushed and drenched in sweat. 

Kent worked harder to keep his weights from clanking. 

\---

He’d ended up in the same building as Poots, the d-men Crouse & Houser, Oh-yay, and Guido. They (and so many of the Falcs) were friendly but still standoffish, and just that morning Zimms’ rookie, Shells, flat out dropped his waterbottle when Kent hopped onto the bike next to him. Kent finally cracked (after too many glasses of wine) and texted Bittle for advice:

  
_omg help_  
_how do i get these guys to like me??_  
_they freakign love u howw?_

_Sry cant help_

The bottom of Kent’s stomach fell out.

 _its my sparkling personality  
so threres no hope for you_ [wink emoji]

Kent stared, read that again, and promptly fell over laughing.

_sounds fake but ok…_

[string of laugh-crying emojis]  
_the boys are intimidated by you  
for some reason?_

Kent snorted, but thank you Captain Obvious, and then another text came in.

_have them over, let them_  
_kick your butt at mario party_  
_but no settlers of catan tho_  
_that’s banned_

__

__

_omg do i even want to kno?_

_well u can blame one of your As  
two guesses which one_

Kent sent a string of laugh-crying emojis and a gif of Alan Rickman flipping a table with a question mark.

 _p much, yeah!_ [laugh-crying emoji]

So the next day, Kent sent a challenge to the groupchat.

OJ:  
_Joo_

Zimms:  
_Bittle says he’s bringing FIFA cookies_

Poots:  
_OH SHIT, IM IN_

Crouse:  
_WHEN?_

Houser:  
_WHEN?  
jinx, hey_

Tetris:  
_Fine!_

  
_what? omg how?  
what about this isn’t allowed?_

Tetris:  
_not u parser, HOUSER_

Houser:  
_gdi tetris!_

Odegaard:  
_wait but why FIFA?_  
_I'm down to shoot blue shells_  
_at parser but I don’t want to_  
_lose to him at soccer too_

  
_aw odie ilu 2_

Zimms:  
_Haus tradition, the game of_  
_choice doesn’t matter._  
_But parse, why mario party?_  
_Care for a game of catan?_

Crouse:  
_BOO!_

Poots:  
_BOOOOO!_

Houser:  
[ghost emoji]

_UR BETTER HALF ALREADY  
WARNED ME ABOUT U ZIMMS_

Tetris:  
_FINE, zimmboni_

Zimms:  
_Fight me, that’s not in  
the bylaws_

Tater:  
_am down! )))))  
am always down for b!_

And that was how his condo ended up bursting at the seams with hockey players. It got to the point that Bittle went and took little plates of his FIFA cookies to Kent’s neighbors as I’m-sorry-we’re-rowdy-neighbors bribes, and to Kent’s shock it worked. But then again, these linzer cookies were absolutely incredible and could probably create world peace. Between his rounds, he told Bittle this, and the kid flushed to the tips of his ears. 

“Let me tell you a secret, Mr. Parson?” He looked up at him, eyes so so wide, and Kent felt his stomach flip. 

“Course, man.” He looked around and no one else was in ear shot, but he leant an ear down closer anyway. 

Bittle rose up on his tip-toes and whispered, “These are actually made with store-bought jam.”

Kent snorted so hard, and Bittle slipped back onto his feet, wailing, “I have a reputation to uphold, but I just ran out of time!”

Kent clinked his beer bottle against Bittle’s and said with absolute gravity, “If you can’t get manna from heaven, store-bought is fine.”

Bittle clutched Kent’s arm and giggled into his shoulder, and Kent couldn’t look away. 

“PARSER! You’re up!” Griggs yelled. 

Kent ruffled Bittle’s hair and sauntered back to the controllers, jumping over the back of his couch and landing half in Shells’ lap to a chorus of cheers.

\---

 **Kent Parson Official** @therealkvp ∙ 18 Jul 2017  
@omgcheckplease who wont u try 2 feed? #traitor #bribery  


**Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease ∙ 18 Jul 2017  
@therealkvp plz i just know how to treat a queen #EatMoreProtein

\---

Eric fussed over the dozens of goodie bags in the trunk of his Outback, wondering if he could carry the boxes stacked on top the other without crushing the bows too much, and he knew, he knew his brain got stuck on little details like this when he was stressed, but knowing didn’t make it any easier to make it stop, but if he didn’t figure this out quick, he’d be—”

“Hey Bittle!” Parson called from right at his side, and he jumped a foot with a shriek. 

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me.” Parse held up his hands.

Eric shook his head with a bright little laugh at himself, “Oh, no don’t mind me, I just got lost in my head, is all.” He gripped the edge of one of the boxes tighter. 

Parson quirked him a half-grin, then looked closer. Then he beamed. “Are those for the kids?” 

Eric shrugged, “Ah, yeah. I thought they’d enjoy a little somethin’ sweet on their first day, as a welcome. Some of these little ones, this is their first camp. I want them to enjoy it, you know?” 

Parse’s smile grew even fonder, and he bumped his shoulder into his own. Eric blinked, because he hadn’t locked up at the contact. Parse didn’t even notice, he just reached into the hatchback and hefted one of the boxes, blue ribbons bouncing at the movement, and Eric piped, “Oh, you don’t need to—!”

Parse rolled his eyes. “’Oh’ just let me help, yeah? It’ll save you the second trip.” He leveled him a look, then put on a paroxysm of agony, “ _Oh! Oh my back! I can’t carry several hundred cookies!_ ” 

“Ohhh I could just step on your foot!” Eric cried as he slammed his hatch shut. Parse only snickered, but he already felt better. Softly, he said, “Thanks.”

“Sure thing buttercup,” Parse chirped and held open the door. 

Eric rolled his eyes, then asked. “Are you ready for today?” 

“Hells yeah!” 

“Mr. Parson!” Eric scolded, full-on southern belle.

“Well, heck yeah, of course, jeez.” Parse rolled his eyes so hard he rolled his head along with, then he leveled Eric a steady look. “This ain’t my first rodeo, kid.” 

Eric huffed, “Says the New Yorker.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a comment on my ability to keep it PG or shade at my drawl.” Parse sniffed, then waggled his eyebrows, “There are a lot of cowboys in Vegas, you know.” 

Eric groaned and hipchecked him, “Ohh my goodness, you are ridiculous!” 

“Hand to heart! Lots of wranglers, boots, even… _assless chaps_.” Parse hipchecked him back, and Eric could feel his ears burning even as he swatted at Parse to make him stop. Then Kent Parson laughed so hard he snorted, and Eric was never letting him live it down. 

Then they dropped the boxes of goodie bags at the registration tables, and Parse pulled off his snapback. He eyed Bittle like he was about to hang a painting, then plopped it onto his head. Eric stared wide-eyed up at him, and Parse said, “There, now you’re repping the team.” He winked and stepped back. “I’ll see you once the kids are on the ice.”

Eric swallowed hard and nodded.

 

Kent had gotten used to Eric Bittle looking cute, with his bow ties and dress slacks and cardigans tied jauntily over his shoulders like he was perfectly prepared to go yachting after work for god’s sake, but this? Eric in black track pants and Under Armour? With nothing pastel or polka-dotted? About to get ready to lace up and step out onto the ice and _teach kids how to play hockey_ —? Kent needed to chill. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that Bittle was a player himself, he’d just kind of…forgotten. Annnd now he _needed to chill_. So he texted an apology to the PR staff he’d been set to meet with before his part in the kids’ camp, and he headed for the weight room instead. 

 

The kids arrived like a hurricane, and this was so familiar that Eric let himself relax. He did know how to do this. He and Mel had organized this well, and their support staff knew how to do their jobs. And the kids’ genuine joy at the goodie bags helped settle that last little knot of worry for good. But then one of the littler boys looked up at him and gasped, “Kent Parson!” 

And then the gaggle nearest turned to him for a second look, and suddenly he was being mobbed for autographs. 

“Sorry! Sorry folks, I’m just Eric Bittle. Mr. Parson will be here later.” The chorus of ‘awws’ almost broke him, and he stared wide-eyed and pleading at Mel, who was— _the traitor!_ — was holding her phone, recording and stifling laughter. 

Then one of the girls asked, “Mr. Bittle, are you the Eric Bittle that played for Samwell? With Jack Zimmermann?”

Eric tried to use his mind to knock Mel’s phone out of her hands (sadly, it still wouldn’t work) but he turned a bright smile onto the girl. “I am.” 

She squealed, “Ohmygosh! Your goal in the Frozen Four this year was sick sauce!” 

Eric blinked and blushed and stammered, “Oh, oh my goodness, thank you! Tell me, how do you know so much about hockey already?”

She piped, “My oldest sister’s gonna play for Wisconsin this fall. We watched all the college hockey last year, and I have the issue of Outsports where they interviewed you! Can I get your autograph?”

Now, this wasn’t the first time someone had asked for his autograph, but this was the first time he’d been asked outside of the context of Samwell. It was one thing when he was fresh off the ice, still in his jersey, or in his team togs, but he’d also had to spend so much time trying to convince people that he was even on the team, so— he had to fight back tears. “Well, I’ll be with you all week, so how bout you bring that magazine some other day? Then I’ll get that signed for you.” She squealed, and Eric straightened, squaring his shoulders, and he called to the rest of the kids, “Alright, is everyone signed in? Are you folks ready to see the Falcs’ locker room?” 

They all cheered. 

The support staff led the way, so Eric made a bee-line for Mel, eyes blazing. “If you do not delete that _right now_ , I won’t bake for you at all for an entire month!” 

She only beamed up at him and shook her head. “Too late! I already sent it to the boys.”

Eric shrieked, “Melanie!”

 

Kent was re-racking his free weights when Warren stifled a laugh and called, “Hey Parser! If you ever need to dodge the paps, we found you a body double!” 

Oh-yay was on the bike next to him, staring at his phone with his hand clapped over his mouth, giggling, “Oh, is too cute!” 

Kent frowned and asked, “What?” 

Warren just said, “Check the groupchat.” 

And Kent _had_ noticed his phone buzzing incessantly, but with the groupchat, that could mean anything from lunch plans to Crouse  & Houser trolling the marrieds, so he had just resigned himself to wait til he finished his set to check. 

Then he saw the video.

He saw the _whole_ video. 

_…Oh Bits—_

He shoved his phone back in his pocket and did _not_ run for the locker room.

 

Then he drew up short when he saw Zimms and Tater already in there, lacing up. Zimms was saying, “so great—I mean, his Winter Screw date frog year wouldn’t even believe he was on the team. But then, that was also the same guy who threw up on his shoes— Oh hey, Kenny. Did you see the video?” 

“Heh, yeah.” Right. Zimms. Zimms and Bittle. And all the bow ties and track pants and snapbacks in the world aside— none of it mattered, because those two were already— already— _He needed to chill_. But something twisted in his chest, snarling and awful, and before he could stop it, he asked bitterly, “So what d’you think, eh? _Do_ Bits and I look alike?” 

Zimms just looked at him thoughtfully, and Kent looked away. “Euh, not really. I mean, you’re both short and blonde—”

Tater added, “Freckles. And same little nose—”

Kent threw his sweaty hand towel with a forced laugh, “Oh fuck you very much, too!” but Tater just laughed louder and dodged. It hit the cubby wall with a damp slap. 

Zimms continued, “I’m just glad he’s still getting recognition for his play. He got so much attention for being the first out captain, and yeah, some of that wasn’t about what he did on the ice—” He met Kent’s gaze steadily, but like _yes, okay, message received, now don’t draw any more attention to me in front of Mashkov—_ “but that didn’t change what really mattered, and that was how he played and what he meant to the team.” 

Tater stood and thumped the butt of his stick on the floor, calling, “That’s our B!” 

Zimms smiled wide at Tater’s enthusiasm, and Kent scrabbled to beat back his storming emotions. He stripped off his sweat-damp shirt, slipped on fresh layers, and poured himself into the physical act of putting on his skates. He felt a bit weird without his breezers and pads, like the skipped steps left vacant holes in his routine that itched if he let himself think about it, but these were just kids out there. 

Then he followed Zimms and Tater out up the tunnel, and too late, he realized he was wearing black track pants and a black fleece, too. 

He grit his teeth and resigned himself to the chirps. 

Then he stepped out onto the rink and felt his blades bite into the ice, and one little piece inside snapped back into place. 

He could hear the kids cheering even from here, and he pulled on his media face. These kids didn’t need to deal with his shit, god, and he was here for _them_ , dammit. 

Then he saw Eric, standing there with a stick in both hands, beaming at the kids’ excitement, and he felt his heart flip. 

_Then_ he heard Eric call, “And here’s the _real_ Kent Parson!” and the kids went nuts.

Kent smirked as he snowed to a stop. “Sup, kids?” 

And oh goodness, some of the kids were trying to jump in place, but they were already only so steady on the ice, and—yep, there was the pile up. Eric waded into the fray, already mother-henning, and Tater cried, “Who’s ready to set up some drills!” 

They cheered again, and Zimms told them gravely, “The first thing a hockey player has to do is get warmed up. So we’re going to skate a few laps to wake your legs up, and _then_ we’ll stretch. So are you ready?” 

“YEAH!!!”

And then he and Tater took off, with dozens of 5-8 year olds tearing after them.

Kent skated up to Eric, trying to stop himself from fidgeting with his stick, and chirped, “Hey man, sorry that kid dragged you like that.”

Eric blinked up at him, confused, but then he snorted. “Eh, I can think of worse people to get mistaken for.” 

“Yeah, but that kind of slander just can’t be allowed to stand!” 

“You say that like you weren’t the _cover_ of the Body Issue,” Bittle drawled, the living personification of the _Sure, Jan_ gif.

To his horror, Kent flushed scarlet. Just—the thought of Bittle with that magazine— and his brain shut down. That was the only explanation. How else could he be so stupid as to blurt, “Yeah, but I don’t hold a candle to you.”

Eric blinked at him, sure he’d misheard, and Kent tore off after a stray puck before he could say anything even worse. 

_Kids! Focus on the kids!_

Then Jack Zimmermann skated up and clacked the blade of his stick to Bittle’s, beaming, and Jesus _Fuck_ , was this how Zimms had felt when he’d thought Kent had gotten everything he’d ever wanted? Because it hit him just then that these two were going to have a kid of their own shit in the Stanley Cup one day, and the very thought of it made him want to rip his own teeth out, molars first.

Oh god, this felt bitterly familiar. But who was he even jealous of, anymore?

 

The whole camp was like one drawn out torture session, because yeah, Zimms and Bittle were a _unit_ , and yeah, Tater hammed it up for the kids, but Bittle kept making an effort to keep Kent engaged, too. And it was just so easy to respond to that cheerful, open charm. 

Then they started going through passing drills, and—and it was like—well, it was like when he’d met Zimms back in the Q, this new factor that just clicked into place in his hockey brain, then turned into _magic_. 

Here's the thing that people tended to forget: Kent loved the game, but what Kent loved most was when he got to _share_ the game, to become part of something bigger than himself and make something new. He was a playmaker. And skating with Zimms _and_ Bits on his line? _God_. What was this kid doing in the front office? 

Kent ended up staying longer than he was scheduled for, but he couldn’t bear to go. He posed for pictures and signed the kids’ camp jerseys and shoulder-checked Bittle as he helped put the obstacle course props away, and finally he couldn’t bear to _not_ ask, “Were you ever scouted?” 

Bittle startled, then shut the equipment room door with both hands. “Goodness! Do you need glasses?” He let out that tinkling little laugh that Kent was starting to hate. 

Kent stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “In all seriousness.”

Bittle stared up at him, wide-eyed. Then he looked away, shaking his head. “You’re too kind, but there’s no way I could play at y’all’s level.” 

Kent snorted, “Well, yeah, not _yet_ , you need development and at least a few dozen pounds, but—”

“Kent Parson, Tater would snap me _like a twig_.” His expression twisted, just for a moment, but then his smile flicked back into place. “I know I can skate. And I love it, I really do. But now it’s on me to make sure to pass that on to the next generation, you know? Actually… I should really see if Katya’d be interested in hosting a clinic, see how our boys’d respond to Soviet morning calisthenics.” 

Kent frowned at the subject change, but he let Bittle ramble til they made their way to the parking lot. Then Bittle headed for his little blue Outback, and Kent cut in to ask, “Wait, Zimms didn’t ride with you?” 

Bittle laughed up at him, “Jack? Gosh, no. Our schedules are all cattywampus this summer.” He glanced at his watch, “His class starts at 5, so he’s probably on his way now.”

Kent blinked a few times. “Wait, class?”

Bittle leaned on the rear of his hatchback, shaking his head with fond exasperation. “Yeah, he’s working on his Master’s at Brown.” He gave a full-bodied shudder and added with a laugh, “Now, me? I’m over the moon to be done with school! But not him. Did you know that Tater’s working on his doctorate? The two of them like to get to talking about the papers they’re preparing for publication, meanwhile I’m over there all curled up, having war flashbacks.” 

“Tater??” Kent asked with a laugh. 

Bittle’s smile twisted into something less pleasant. “Yeah. It’s so… irritating that people hear his accent and see him messing around and think he’s just a dumb jock, because he’s beyond brilliant.”

“Yeah—I—” Kent scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I get that. And I respect the hell out of saying fuck that.” 

Bitty stared up at him, then cried, “Oh!” Kent jumped, but he only snatched the snapback off his head and handed it over. “Here. Thank you again.” 

Kent took his hat back slowly—honestly, he didn’t want it back, but that was ridiculous, so he quickly slid it back on. Then he smirked and caught Bittle in a headlock, ruffling his hair back into disorder. Bittle tried to yell at him through his laughter. 

When Kent finally let him go, Bittle punched him in the arm, blushing, and tried to scold him, “That is quite enough, mister.” He ruined the effect with another giggle. “Alright. I need to run errands. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“You know it. Night Bits.”

Bittle’s smile turned so fond. “Night Kenny.”

 

That night, Kent was sprawled out on the couch in his empty apartment, scrolling through his phone, when he saw it. Bittle had tweeted a picture of Kent skating with the kids, leaning over to show them how to hold their sticks to shoot, with their faces all shining up at him and looking so absolutely intent, but the caption was what got him:

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease ∙ 25 Jul 2017  
@therealkvp Once a captain always a captain. #goPVDFalcs #FlyingWithTheFalcs

And Kent realized that he didn’t have any pics of his own from the skate, so he took a screenshot of the video from the groupchat, of the moment the girl had asked for an autograph, and he posted that with the caption:

 **Kent Parson Official** @therealkvp ∙ 25 Jul 2017  
@omgcheckplease et tu, bit #goPVDFalcs #FlyingWithTheFalcs #YouCanPlay

\---

And suddenly, July was gone. He didn’t hear anything about any plans for Zimms’ birthday, but he didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to act like some gatecrasher, either, in case they weren’t keeping him in the loop on purpose. But when Zimms and Bits actually came to the Nook together on the morning of the 3rd, Kent was not _not_ going to shout, “Happy birthday Zimms!” at the top of his lungs from across the room. 

The lounge erupted.

Zimms looked a bit freaked, so Kent chirped, “What, didja think we’d forget if you didn’t say anything? Nah, man, you’re stuck with us fuckers.” 

The guys hooted and hollered and clapped Zimms on the back, laughing. 

Tater boomed, “So what’s the plan then? Or do we throw party for you?”

Zimms gave out his monotone “Haha. No, I’ve got finals next week, but—” groans all around, so Zimms raised his voice with that same smart-ass smirk he got whenever he was winding someone up, “So that’s why we’re having the party the weekend after next. That way we can ring in the preseason too, eh?” 

Cheers filled the room. 

Meanwhile, Bittle had edged past the fray and was plating up something _divine_. Kent drew closer, and there: golden mini-pies with tiny latticework dusted with cinnamon and sugar, and he murmured reverently, “ _Bits_.”

Bittle beamed. “Maple-apple mini-pies—”

“REALLY?” Crouse gasped and vaulted over the back of the couch to tackle-hug Bittle—

Three things happened at once:  
Zimms shouted, “Crouser, NO!”  
Bittle went white and buckled.  
And Kent lunged to catch him before his head could hit the tiles, knees skidding on the linoleum.

Ignoring the floorburn, he cradled Bitty’s shoulders, frantic. Bits’ eyes were shut, _whathowwhywhat_ — Then his eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Kent, so, so, so confused. Then he noticed the crush of huddled Falcs, and he gasped. 

Then Tater dragged two rookies back by their shirtcollars, and Zimms muscled the rest off. 

Kent could feel Bitty shaking before he covered his face with both hands. “Bits, what—?”

“Come on, bud,” Zimms interrupted, soft but implacable. Bittle muffled something into his hands, and Jack just said, “It’s alright, I promise. Come on.”

Zimms didn’t so much as offer a hand up. 

Kent squeezed Bits’ shoulder and coaxed, “Up you get Bits.”

Bittle let his head fall back against Kent’s forearm with a sharp sigh, but then he let Kent help him stand. 

Kent watched him and Zimms leave the room. The rookies were staring, dead silent, and Kent quickly finished plating up the rest of the mini-pies, before stacking the empty boxes and heading out to bring them back to his office. 

But the pair stood just outside the lounge, Bittle with his head buried in Zimms’ chest, crying, and Zimms with both arms wrapped securely around him, his tiny frame swallowed up by Zimms’ bulk. 

Kent froze, and Zimms met his eye, but he couldn’t _not_ hear Bits’ despairing, “—Why? _I hate this_ , I hate this so much—”

And Kent bolted, as quietly as he could. 

He left Bits’ boxes in his office, without having tried a single bite. 

 

Unheard by either of them, Tater growled, “You _know_ better than to try to touch the Baker, Crouser—”

“Yeah, but—him & Parser—Tater, I saw Parson put him in a headlock, and he just _giggled_. I thought he was over it!”

Tater just scrubbed a hand over his face, and Poots piped, “Maybe it’s some Zimmermann liney mind-meld thing—”

Tater swore in Russian, then ordered, “I don’t care. The bylaw still stands. Unless B makes first move, no roughhousing, no backslapping, no _hugging_ , no matter how much we want to show him how much we care. Understood?”

\---

_Thanks for bringing back  
my tupperware_

__

_ofc. u ok?_

_I’m fine_

Kent put down his phone and buried his head in his hands. He could almost hear the brittle, tinkling quality of the bright smile Bittle no doubt wore while he typed that lie. Then he grabbed his phone and texted:  


  
_zimms. wtf?_  


The typing dots appeared and disappeared. Then:  
_Leave it, Kent._

Kent consciously did _not_ throw his phone. And when he got a grip, he tapped:

_ok, fine, but what can i do_  
_that will make him feel better?_

The dots came and went a few times. Finally, more than a minute later:  
_He likes pumpkin coffee_

Kent stared uncomprehendingly, then snorted.  
__

_r u talking pumpkin spiced  
lattes? PSLs? the ones that  
dont come ot for another month?_

__

_Câlisse_  
_You’re the one that asked._  
_But yes._

Kent stared at his phone, chewing his lip. Finally, he texted Bittle:

  
_will u b around l8r?_  


_<. < yes._  
_Do we need to have words_  
_about how you still text like  
_itss 2006?__

Kent snorted and did a quick google image search: 

_u mad?_  
  


He thought about asking when Bitty worked til, but decided against it. He’d ask if this ended up taking too long. 

 

He tried the indie-corporate-drone cafe down the street first, since he already knew that Starbucks wouldn’t be swayed come hell or high water, but the barista shook her head at him with a thousand-yard stare. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that question this week, probably even within the last month. So he fled. 

Then he tried the hipster café down the next block, the kind that had spider plants hanging in macrame in the windows and sarapes on the tattered thrift-store couches, but the barista shook is head with the kind of grimace that said ‘how dare you ask of this basic-bitch concoction here.’ So he fled. 

The grocery store didn’t carry PSL creamer, either, so he sighed and pulled up google. 

 

He knocked on the open doorframe, and Bitty looked up from his computer, a bit startled. Kent came in and handed over the new travel mug, with its fluffy white kitten and a rainbow and neon pink YAAAS QUEEN, and he was pleased to see Bitty smile for real. It was little, and it was sheepish, but it made his day. 

“What’s this?” Bits asked, voice small. 

“Ah, something to help cheer you up?” Kent stuffed his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t go for his hat. 

“Oh honey, you didn’t have t—” then Bittle caught a whiff of what was inside, and his eyes grew huge. He took a tentative sip, and his eyes fell shut in bliss. 

Kent did _not_ fist pump.

“Ohmygosh, Kenny, where did you get this?” Bits breathed out in a jumble. 

“I, uh, couldn’t find it anywhere, so I—made it?” Bits stared up at him in shock, so he added quickly, “I mean, I had to use the microwave to warm the milk, but I poured it over the coffee, I wouldn’t subject you to microwaved coffee—” he snapped his mouth shut, horrified to realize he was babbling. “Anyways, I hope you like it, I’m gonna go.”

And he fled. 

\---

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease ∙ 3 Aug 2017  
Happy birthday to the guy who’s too hipster for Twitter! [reposted from JLZimmermann’s Instagram: a picture of Jack holding a maple-apple pie with a candle stuck in between the latticework. “Thanks for the birthday wishes”]

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease ∙ 3 Aug 2017  
@therealkvp On a scale from 1 to 10, how much does this look like #KitPurrson? [image of Bittle holding the travel mug next to his monitor, displaying a post of Kit in the same cocked head, look-at-me-I’m-so-cute pose]

Kent liked and retweeted the birthday wishes, and replied to the second:  
**Kent Parson Official** @therealkvp ∙ 3 Aug 2017  
@omgcheckplease 11 out of 10 #nofilter

The number of likes and retweets on that was beyond ridiculous.

\---

Kent and Oh-yay let Crouse & Houser pile out of their Uber van first, half-trampling Poots and Guido, and they let them try to push past each other to be the first up to the house. Poots rolled his eyes a Kent and waited til the d-men had both climbed the stairs to the front porch before calling, “’Round back, fellas.”

They groaned and gallomped down the stairs, but then Oh-yay and Guido wouldn’t let them pass on the narrow sidewalk. Even over the sound of their scuffling, music drifted up from the back. But then Houser got past Guido, and Kent and Poots were left holding the line, which—

“Oh my god, _put me down_ —!” Poots and Oh-yay just laughed too hard to help, so Kent twisted and Houser dropped him with a yelp. Kent kicked him in the shin for good measure, but Houser just ran off after Crouse, cackling. 

Kent reached up to straighten his snapback. 

Zimms had been adamant about no gifts, so his hands were empty. 

Then they came to a tall, old wooden fence covered with blooming clematis. The kissing gate was open, and then they were in the yard. 

Bits had gone all out. The last flush of sunset colored the sky orange and purple, but the yard was bright with light. White patio lights and paper lanterns were strung everywhere, a bonfire roared in the pit, and a game of beer pong was already going strong in the yard. Some of the kids ran around with lit sparklers, wearing glow-stick necklaces and crowns, shrieking with laughter, and someone played a glow-in-the-dark game of badminton. 

A cheer went up from the patio when Crouse & Houser raced to the kitchen, and Kent fought to keep his pace calm and collected. He had every right to be here, he _belonged_ here, this was his team and these were his friends. He would not let himself shrink away. So he returned greetings with a smirk and reminded himself that his sleeves were already rolled up fine so _you’re not fidgeting, god_. 

Then Kent heard, “Parse! Hey man, you made it!”

“Shitty, hey,” Kent called back, and then Shitty offered his fist for a pound. “What’re you up to these days, man?”

“Ah, bro, tryin’ to stop time before I start my L3 year.” He slung an arm over Kent’s shoulders and led him toward a brace of coolers, adding, “Don’t let anyone tell you that Harvard isn’t a pit of vipers and the sadists who train them—” Kent snickered. “But what can we get ya? We’ve got the standard fare, and Snowy’s putting that mixology certificate to use, etc, etc, but I’ve _also_ got tub juice—”

“Just beer’s good, man,” Kent said, trying to hide a shudder. _No tub juice._

“K. So there’s your regular “’Murica, fuck yeah!” beers here, or your hipster microbrews there, and then there’s the shitty keg and the _good_ keg, so take your pick—LARDO!” 

The girl had just hopped over the brick patio wall and punched Kent’s bicep. “Sup, Parse?” 

Kent smiled and held out his free arm, pulling her into a side hug. Shitty hugged his shoulders tighter and placed a bristly, moustachey kiss to his temple, and Kent basked in their casual affection. 

He let Lardo drag him into a game of pong, to the crowd’s delight, and he laughed when she beat him again. Jack’s old d-men—he couldn’t remember their names at the moment— lifted her up onto their shoulders and marched her in a victory lap around the pong table, and Kent doubled over laughing. When they were done, he posed for another loser’s picture for Twitter. 

He turned his notifications off. 

“Alright alright—no, no rematch, Tater, she handed me my ass fair and square! Now I need pie!” Their audience, his teammates, their families, their friends, all cheered. 

 

He got pulled into a few conversations on his way to the kitchen, but he kept going. He was buzzing in the best way, all warm and cheerful and loving everyone in this bar, but he hadn’t been kidding about the pie. 

He nodded at Zimms from across the patio, but he was deep in conversation with St. Martin and Thirdy, so he’d finally go say hi later. 

The french doors were flung open, but it was still quieter and cooler inside. By some stroke of luck, the only other person in the kitchen was Bits himself, loading up the party platters from more tupperware from the fridge. 

“Kenny!” Bits called, beaming when he looked up and saw him. “Didja finally beat Lardo?” 

He snorted hard. “ _Yeah_ sure, Bits.”

“Hey now, I figured I’d be polite and at least pretend to consider it a possibility.”

Kent snorted harder and came round the island to hipcheck him for the lip. Bittle only lifted his nose and rolled his shoulders back with a look of ‘look how sweet and innocent I am, I couldn’t _possibly_ be chirping you’ like the proper southern belle he really was. Kent grabbed a plate and asked, “So what’ve you got for us tonight?” 

And Kent watched, so, so happy as Bitty lit up and started pointing out each dish, sometimes delving into the family history behind the recipe. Kent filled his plate, but then, through the open doors, came the sound of—

“—Boyyyy _yyy_ Y YY YYY—”

Bitty gasp/shrieked and bolted for the yard.

Kent stared after him for a moment, but then the lyrics and trumpets hit. He laughed and rushed for the patio, too. 

 

Then he nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Bitty was out on the de facto dance floor, _dancing_.

_…Holy. Shit._

People around him cheered, and then his d-men—Ransom! Ransom & Holster both hollered “BIIIIITS!” and dove in to join him, and Kent needed to sit down. 

_Hips. Hips on hips._

Zimms bumped Kent’s shoulder and joined him, a stupid self-satisfied smirk on his face as he asked, “So how ‘bout that Taylor Swift, eh?”

Kent blinked, wondering what she had to do with this, but then he did a double-take and spluttered, “Jack Zimmermann!” 

Jack just snickered into his beer, and Kent took a giant bite of his sandwich in retaliation, but _oh god, homemade sourdough—_ his eyes slid shut in bliss. “Oh fuck,” broke out through his mouthful. Zimms raised his glass with a look, and Kent wrinkled his nose at him to tell him to fuck off. 

Then his traitor brain made him find Bitty again, where he held court on the dance floor, with Holster’s massive hand wrapped around his waist as he ground from behind—

Kent snapped his gaze over to gauge Zimms’ reaction, but he somehow only looked _fond_ , what even—?

The beat pounded in his chest with his heart.

Kent turned his attention back to his plate (or, well, _tried_ , really) and plowed through his food with single-minded determination (or so he told himself) while the crowd cheered Bits and Holster on. 

When the song ended, Bittle bounded back up to the patio, sweaty and a bit out of breath, with his hair rumpled on one side, and then he slipped around the table to Kent’s other side, cheeks glowing, smiling bright and free, and he pinched a cream puff off of Kent’s plate. 

Kent had either ascended or gone to hell, he couldn’t tell which. 

Warren leaned back in his chair and called, “Eyyy kid, moves like Jagger—where’d you learn to dance like that?”

Bittle waved a gracious hand. “Oh, I took dance back when I was still figure skating, training, you know?” 

Houser asked a bit incredulously, “What, _dance?_ ”

Kent saw Bits’ expression flicker, so he drawled, “Oh, sure. It’s great conditioning. Really helps with ankle strength.” 

“Really?”s chorused from the guys around them, but Kent only heard Bitty, who also asked, “Wait, did you, too?” 

Kent’s smile softened. “Yeah, for sure. Couple-a years now. Mostly the Latin styles, some ballet.”

Bits _blossomed_ and said eagerly, “I did ballet for _years_ , ohmygosh. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of the scars on my toes—”

“—on your toes?” Kent blinked hard and clutched at his fork so hard he felt it bend. “Bits. Bitty. _Did you do pointe training?_ ”

 _That long arm stretched up overhead, with the other hand wrapped secure around the barre as he rolled up onto his toes, every muscle taut from ankle to core, fluid in stillness—_

The boy only waved a hand, like he hadn’t just turned Kent’s brain into the blue screen of death, and added, “Oh yeah, pointe training for grace and strength, but then my coach—mind you, my _sixty year old battle-axe of a Russian_ coach wanted me to learn to “move those hips” so… Latin and hip-hop, too.”

But Kent didn’t get the chance to enjoy the image, because Warren and Houser started chirping, in ways that he was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt to believe they thought were good-natured, but he was trying to think of how to shut them down. 

Bits finally drawled, “I was training for _Nationals_ , y’all. And I would argue that it helped, too, so y’all might want to check your bro-hood enough to consider that it _might help y’all too_ —”

Ohh shit, three y’alls in a row, Kent needed to change this subject now— Then, [gentle, rippling guitar floated out over the speakers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJQP7kiw5Fk), so different from the pounding bass from before. He cocked his head. Was that— _yes_.

Three thoughts became sudden truths:  
No one would make Bittle feel small on his watch.  
Bittle deserved to be shown off at every chance.  
These guys needed to be put in their place _now_

Kent smirked at Bits and cut in, “Hey Bits.” He jerked his chin at the music. “You wanna?” 

Bittle only looked at him blankly, so as the song built, Kent added, “Come on, let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

Bits searched his face, brown eyes dark in the patio lights, and then Kent could see the moment he recognized the song, too. His face split on a wide, slow grin—an expression Kent had never seen on him before. 

The guitar cascaded over the crowd as Bitty scrambled to his feet. 

Shitty wasn’t the only one to shout “ _Aaaaay!_ ” and the Falcs started hooting and cheering. 

Kent threw down his napkin and followed him onto the makeshift dance floor, all trampled grass beneath glowing lanterns, and the crowd quickly parted for them. And _fuck_ , Bitty looked back over his shoulder with a fey delight, and _then_ he stopped, poised and fluid even in stillness, and— _oh_. Bits smirked up at him, but two could play that game. Kent stopped, too, skin thrumming. 

At the first lyrics, Bits moved, and Kent, rooted to the spot, stared as he _stalked_ forward, circling him like Kent was a prize up for auction that he would claim. 

Oh, he hadn’t counted on _this_.

Bits stopped before him, a dangerous arch to his jaw, and Kent returned the movement. He prowled around Bits' smaller frame, and he watched how Bits tracked his movement, locked in, flush apparent even in the low light, and Kent gulped. 

Show ‘em up, show Bits off, that’s all he was there for, and all he was there to do.

The first touch of Bits’ hand in his was a shock, a warm, callused palm, the strength evident in his long fingers— Then it was the warmth of his back, muscles firm even through his shirt, and then—

_Bits moved._

There was no awkward stumbling, no trodden feet, just an absolute awareness of each others’ space, and it was like being on the ice with him again, not just knowing where he was, but also knowing where he _would_ be—

Kent let him fly. 

Really, Bits was a joy to dance with, responsive, creative, precise yet flowing, but this? This? How could he handle this? He could feel Bits’ muscles flex beneath his palm, revel in the arch of his arm as Kent drew him into a spin—

“ _Despacito—_ ”

Bits snapped out of the turn, and their eyes met. All thoughts of competitive protectiveness flew out the window, not with the fire burning in Bits’ eyes. Not when Kent caught light with it. 

“ _Despacito—_ ”

Kent pulled him closer, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, and the music took them.

Bits spun and swirled beneath his hand, bent back with the long line of his neck all on display, and still kept coming back like he couldn’t bear to be away. So Kent worked him faster, and Bits met him challenge for challenge, lithe and vibrant and burnished gold in the lantern light. The beat changed, and they responded. Bits snapped out three turns in one spin, a sharp blur so telling of his past, of how he first learned to skate and what would never really leave him— then _back_ , hips-on-hips, their faces inches apart, that novel feeling of being the taller one for once, of knowing bone-deep that Bits was the perfect size, small enough to be wrapped up, surrounded, yet lips near enough to just lean down and kiss—

Bits’ hairline had gone dark with sweat, and his flush disappeared beneath his collar—

Kent spun him partway, then pulled him back close, back-to-chest, their hands linked, arms crossed tight across Bits’ tight abs, the curve of his ass cradled back tight against his hips as they moved, and Kent sang along into Bits’ ear, 

" _Vamos a hacerlo en una playa en Puerto Rico_  
_Hasta que las olas griten "¡ay, bendito!"_  
_Para que mi sello se quede contigo—_ "

And he reveled in the way goosebumps rippled across the curve of Bits' neck, and Kent barely bit back the urge to just _bite_. He ran the tip of his nose up the shell of Bits’ ear and _felt_ him shiver. 

Then he spun him back into another whipping turn, and Bits came back to him, chest-to-chest, hips-to-hips, eyes blazing, and the song crescendoed into its last frenzied chorus, then slowed. Kent twisted his grip and bent him back, dipping low. Bits’ free arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, knocking his snapback to the ground, and his neck arched long, flushed pink and damp with sweat, chest heaving, and with that last, slow— 

“ _Des- pa- cito—_ ” 

Kent drew him back up. And Bits’ face was so close, right there, right there— 

And raucus cheering snapped him back into the present. He blinked rapidly, feeling how Bitty panted beneath his hands, his arm still wrapped around the back of his neck, and _oh s h i t—_

His teammates, their friends—oh god, _Jack—_

Kent dropped Bitty’s hand like he was burnt and leapt away. Why were they cheering? Why were they pounding his back? Why was Bitty staring up at him, eyes wide and shocked that Kent would rip himself out of his arms, like he even deserved to be there in the first place? Then Bits was swarmed by a pile of cat-calling Wellies, and Kent ducked to retrieve his hat and pushed through the crowd to get away. 

How could he be so _stupid?_ Of all the—he wasn’t—this was the— 

Oh god, how could he do this to _Jack?_ In their home? _At Jack’s birthday party?_

He fled inside, but the kitchen was too bright, a glaring reminder that _this_ was a gift, a space rebuilt entirely to suit Bittle to the bone—and people were milling about, chatting and laughing like the world wasn’t crashing down around them. He slipped down the hallway, cool and dark, away, away— 

He opened a door, hoping for a bathroom, and found himself in a den. The pool table in the center of the room was blessedly unoccupied, but _god_ — there, framed on the wall over the bar, the pair of Samwell jerseys, each with the matching Cs, and Kent let himself slump back against the wall. 

He jumped when the door opened, and he scrabbled to get hold of his expression, thinking some of the Falcs were coming to play pool with the worst timing imaginable, but—

Bittle came in, shutting the door behind him quietly, and _oh god_ , Kent never wanted to see that expression on Bits’ face again: hurt and scared and ashamed, and he almost felt sick that _he’d_ been the one to put that there. He started to apologize, but Bits beat him to it.

Wringing his hands, he pled, “Kenny— Parse, look, I’m sorry if I freaked you out back there—I, I mean, being that—that _gay_ , I mean, I don’t—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

Kent blinked stupidly, expecting rebuke but definitely not from this angle! So he just gabbled a choked, “—what? Bits, you think I’m having a—some sort of _straight crisis?_ ” He snorted hard at the utter ridiculousness of it all and threw his snapback on the pool table so he could fist his hair, laughing a bit helplessly, “Jesus, _no_ —I’m queer as the day is long.”

“— _What?_ ” Bitty asked, frozen, eyes too damn big for his perfect face, god _dammit—_ “Then, then why did you run?” he asked, and whatthefuck why did that sound like _hope?_

Kent stared, trying to grapple with the awful starving, snarling thing that lived in his chest, because _no_ , this kid didn’t just get to have everything that he wanted (half of everything he wanted, his traitor brain whispered) but then just get to throw that away, fucking _hope_ , what— “ _Why?_ ” he snapped, and oh god he could feel his bared teeth, “Why would fucking _flirting_ with you in front of Jack, in your _own fucking home_ be a thing I might regret? No matter how little you think of me—” his throat closed up on his rage, thank _fuck_. 

“Kent Parson, make sense _now_ ,” Bittle snapped back, “Why would that—” but then his jaw dropped. He blinked rapidly, and Kent internally relished how shocked he looked, like, yeah Bittle _should_ be shocked at his own behavior— but he yelped, “ _Jack?_ You think we’re _together?_ Kenny, no!” 

And something fragile, warped and strangled in him snapped, and he pleaded, “Bullshit, that’s fucking bullshit. _Do not lie to me_ —”

Bittle reached for his hand, so he jerked out of reach. Bittle brought his empty hand to his forehead and he took a deep breath like he was asking for strength, and said, “Me and Jack are not dating.” 

“—What?” Kent asked quaveringly. “But—you—” he waved his hand around the room, indicating the whole house. 

Bits gusted out, “We’re roommates, _just_ roommates. Jack just does better when he can be around people, it helps keep him from getting stuck in his head—Shitty and Lardo are going to be moving in once he gets done with law school. They’d be here for the summer but he’d already committed to Boston’s DA and he doesn’t need that commute on top of that—” he waved his hands in front of his face like he could bat that thought away and came back to the topic. “Jack’s not my boyfriend. I mean, he’s always going to be one of the most important people in my life, but— trust me. It’s not like that.”

Kent stared down at him, mind whirling, because the way he said that—like he sounded like he didn’t think he even had a chance somehow. But, like, he’d thought Kent was straight, so obviously Zimms hadn’t told him, so did Bitty think that _Jack_ was straight, too? He shook his head and croaked, “Then—then he just hasn’t made a move yet, trust me—I know what Jack Zimmermann looks like ass over tea kettle in love—”

“Oh!” Bits gasped, and _that’s right,_ but he added, “Oh! _You’re_ the ex!”

Which, just—what? An entirely different revelation dawned on the kid’s face, and then Bits fished out his phone, dialing, and _what?_ Before Kent could stop him, he asked, “Honey? Come to the den please? We need to clarify some things for Kent. Mmhm.” Kent stared, completely off-balance, and nothing made sense. “No, I don’t think we’ll need Shitty to mediate, but maybe ask him to keep an eye on his phone? Yep. Thanks sweetpea.” 

Bits watched him for a moment, then looked away and asked, “Has Tater ever given you the talking to about my issues yet?” 

Kent unstuck his tongue, “The fuck? No? You don’t—”

“Didn’t think so,” he cut in. “I wonder if Jack talked to him, or if he just noticed it too? It’s never been a problem with you, not even from the very start. And honey, I _know_ it’s a problem, hence the therapist and the bylaws—” he held up a hand when Kent tried to interrupt. “I have PTSD and I’m touch-averse. It’s why I dropped like a sack-a-bricks when Crouser tried to so much as hug me last week.” Kent stared, mind reeling again as he ran back through every hipcheck and facewash he’d subjected Bittle to, scrambling to figure out how he’d missed that level of discomfort— Bits continued, “Do you know what it’s like to want so badly but be too scared to go for it? At least Jack—no, that’s his to tell. But Kent, Kenny, do you know how much I miss being part of the casual shenanigans you lot get up to? Lord, hockey players are the most touchy-feely group of bros I’ve ever encountered, but I’m stuck on the outside looking in, like the little matchgirl, but then there’s _you—_.”

And then Jack freaking Zimmermann pushed the door open, balancing three steaming mugs of hot fucking chocolate, and Kent wondered if he was astral projecting into a different universe, because what was this Martha Stewart shit? But—oh, this was probably just what years of living with Eric Bittle did to you. 

He snapped his eyes shut when Jack leant down to the side so Bitty could reach up on his tiptoes to brush a kiss across his cheek. Then Jack pressed a warm mug into his own shaking hands ( _Bits’ hand warm in his own_ —no.)

Jack leaned back against the pool table and took a sip. He looked from Kent, who did his best to look anywhere else, to Bitty, who sighed, “Kent is laboring under the misapprehension that you and I are together. I was just telling him about my whole touch-aversion. I didn’t want to speak for you, but—” his face twisted in a grimace, “but he’s got some pretty strong ideas, so can you explain?”

“Kenny, Bits and I aren’t dating,” Jack said softly. “That’s not some closeted code. We’re not—” he took a breath and crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders. “It took me a while to figure it out, but I’m ace.” 

Kent nodded and waited. And when that was it, he looked up. “—Yeah, and?”

Jack looked annoyed. “What d’you mean ‘and’? And that’s it. That’s why. If anything, Bits and I are in a queer-platonic relationship.”

“Ah, yeah, platonic my _ass_ ,” Kent scoffed. 

“Don’t tell me how I feel—!” Jack thunked his mug down hard.

“It’s all over your faces—!” Kent’s voice started rising. 

Bitty tried to cut in, but Jack started getting louder too, “Why do you keep—” 

“I am _not_ getting in between you two, Jesus fuck! You two are, like, too pure for real life. I’m in love with your love, so I’ll be damned if I sit back and let you squander that because _you’re_ lying to yourself!” Kent put his mug down before his shaking hands dropped it. 

Jack growled, “Do you have any idea what it did to me, to try to keep switching meds, to—to try to figure out which one wouldn’t have this fucking— _side-effect_ — or how inadequate that made me feel? I _tried_ for you, Kent, and look how well that worked out—”

Bits tried to cut in again with a soft, “Honey—”

But Kent was horrified, hand-numbingly, dizzyingly _horrified_ , and he choked, “You think I was only in it for—for _sex?_ Jesus _fuck_ , Zimmermann—I mean, yeah, I won’t say I didn’t want that, but it would’ve just been icing on the cake—you fucking think that that was all I was there for? I lov—I _loved_ —” his voice broke on that deliberate past tense, but he forced himself to keep going, “you for being _you_ , but now I’m more sorry than I can ever say if I ever made you feel like I ever pushed for more than you wanted to give—” but then his throat closed up and he buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t let them see him break down like this.

They’d never had anything more than a few heavy makeout sessions, always too aware of their teammates, their billet families, the relentless, insatiable media—even when he’d visited Zimms over the summer, they could never _not_ be 100% aware that they were under Bad Bob’s roof and the revolving door of agents, scouts, and players. Even under the glaring summer sun, with all the screaming cicadas, they couldn’t get off the ice. 

So Kent didn’t see how Jack’s face went blank as he tried to reorganize everything he’d ever thought had gone wrong between them, or how Bitty used his hands and eyebrows to order Jack to _fix this_ , but Kent did hear the distant chime of a grandfather clock in some other room tolling the hour—

Then Jack was there, pulling Kent into his chest, arms wrapped tight around him, and Kent fell apart. Jack pressed a kiss to his hair and murmured, “ _Câlisse de crisse_ , I’m an idiot.” Kent made a dissenting noise, but Jack just said, “No, I am. And I didn’t mean it like that, you never pushed me, I pushed myself, and that’s on _me_ , not you.” 

Kent took a shuddering breath and mumbled into Jack’s damp tshirt, “Ok, good. I mean, not _good_ , just—don’t fuck up this thing with Bits just because of this—I mean, if this is the only thing stopping you, don’t.” It was easier to say this with his face hidden so he didn’t have to see their reactions. “I mean, shit, people hook up all the time without being in love, how hard is it to believe that people can be in love without hooking up, too?”

Jack hummed and stroked his palm up and down Kent’s back, and Kent fought to keep himself from melting completely. “That’s a good point.”

Kent’s muffled, “Of course it is, I said it,” made both Jack and Bitty laugh, and he remembered why he was here. So he stood up and tried to step back, but Jack kept his arms locked behind Kent’s back. Kent could not, _could not_ look up, but he patted Jack’s chest firmly and said, “So go get your boy, Zimms.”

But Jack didn’t move. If anything, his hands tightened in the back of Kent’s shirt. Kent looked up, confused, then his gaze darted away to Bitty, who was staring at them, eyes bright. So Kent pressed harder against Jack’s chest and broke from his grip, and took a deliberate step away. 

Bittle’s eyes narrowed at him, and Kent froze. Bitty put down his mug with a thunk loud in the silence, and he said, “Now, I’m incredibly proud of y’all for talking about your feelings, but we’re not done here. So, can we all agree to continue this open, honest communication?”

Jack and Kent both nodded, but Bits sighed and ordered a little bossily, “Words, please.” 

Kent gaped, but Jack smiled like a sunrise and breathed, “Yes, Bits.” Kent had to swallow dryly a few times before he could echo him. 

Bits bit his lip for a moment, blushing furiously, and Kent could see the little shadows his eyelashes made on his cheeks when he ducked his head, and _lord_ the contrast with how confident Bitty normally was made his hands itch to wrap him in a hug—but that wasn’t his job— 

Then Bitty took a deep breath and visibly gathered himself. “Kenny, you made a valid point, but I’m going to have to say that that wouldn’t be enough for me—” and Kent could _see_ Jack deflate, and _how fucking dare he—_ but Bits held up a hand and added, “alone.” He addressed Jack, “Honey, I know what it’s like to _not_ want, but I also…really do? So, I need more. But I…think I’ve got an idea that could work out for all of us?”

Jack breathed, “—Bits!” with so much happy warmth, but Kent was confused, _beyond_ confused, what even—

Bitty continued hopefully, blushing so hard the flush disappeared beneath his shirt collar, “That is…if everyone is on board—” he took a deep breath and told Kent, “I do love Jack, but I also like you, Kenny, a whole hell of a lot. And, I think—I mean, I’d hoped I hadn’t been imagining things, but it wouldn’t be the first time I ever fell for a straight boy, so I didn’t know wh—”

And Kent, who’d been struck dumb, surged forward at that to throw his arms around him with a breathless, “ _—Bits!_ ” He spun Bitty in a giddy circle, hardly daring to believe it, and then he set him down and leaned in—

Bitty laughed and pressed his hand to Kent’s chest, sassing, “ _Words_ , Mr. Parson.”

Kent ducked to his eye-level, staring with mock gravity, and declared, “Bits. Bittle. Eric—goddamn it, what is your middle name?”

Jack smirked as Bittle squawked, and answered, “Richard. But there’s also _Dicky_.” 

Bittle full-on gasped at that treachery. Kent took advantage of his distraction to lift him by his tight little butt and perch him on the edge of the pool table next to Jack, slipping in tight between Bits’ knees, who scrabbled for a hold around his neck. He mirrored Jack’s smirk and continued, “Eric Richard Bittle, can I be one of your boyfriends?” 

And the little shit’s eyes only glittered as he asked back, “I don’t know, can I be one of yours?” 

Kent blinked rapidly, not even really considering that there’d be any other options here, but then Zimms’ big hand settled at the small of his back, and Kent sucked in a breath. “I—yeah? I mean, shit—can I?” he asked Bits because he couldn’t dare look at Zimms’ expression. 

Then Zimms bent to brush his lips against Kent’s ear and breathed, “Yeah.” 

He would _deny_ the whimper that escaped his lips til the day he died. As it was, he slipped his fingers up the back of Bits’ shirt and stroked the bare skin above the waist of his stupid tiny shorts. But he had to ask, he _had_ to be clear this time, “Zimms, what do you need? Don’t let me—”

And then Jack pressed a kiss to his hair and slid a hand up the back of _his_ shirt, his voice rumbling through his chest where it was pressed against his arm, “This—cuddles, kisses—this is so good. And with—with you two to take care of each other, I won’t have to worry about the pressure of— the expectation of having to do more.” 

Bits reached up to cup Jack’s cheek and said thickly, “Promise.” 

Kent tilted his head to bury his face in Zimms’ neck, and sighed, “Yeah, bud.” 

He breathed, _he breathed._

Then Bits squirmed and whined, “Oh my word, someone kiss _somebody_ , please—” 

Kent jolted at the way Bits’ legs had tightened around his hips, but Zimms just chuckled darkly and reached over to thread his fingers through the longer hair on the top of Bits’ head, and _ohfuckinghell_ that sight tapped into a feedback loop of want and memory. Kent’s fingers tightened on Bits’ waist as his neck arched back, and his shocked little gasp was so sweet. 

And Jack leaned in, so close, but then he stopped just short of Bits’ lips and chirped, “Who’s kissing who, here?” 

Bits gave a pained little screech as Kent laughed, and Bits fisted a hand in Jack’s shirt to pull him in for a crashing first kiss. Bits moaned, and it took Kent’s breath away. Jack broke away with a gasp before diving back in, and Bits’ legs wrapped tight around Kent’s hips to keep upright, and oh— _oh fuck_ yeah, he could grind against him right there, that—that was _so_ good— and then Bits broke away, panting, “ _Kenny—_ ” 

And then it was lips on lips, Bits’ nipping at his lower lip, then soothing with his tongue, and Kent devoured him. Bits fisted a hand in his hair, and Zimms cupped his ass with one broad hand, feeling the flex as Kent rocked up against Bits, and fuckingshitfuck, he pulled Bits tighter against him, slipping a hand up his bare thigh, under the hem of his tantalizing shorts, and—

A knock sounded behind him, and he froze. Then Shitty called through the closed door, “Uh, hey guys, everything alright? It’s been a while—” 

Bits pressed his face into the crook of Kent’s neck with a quiet grumbled, “He’s such a good friend, dammit. Lord, let me live!” 

Zimms gave his ass a light smack and called back, “Yeah, thanks Shits. Be right out.”

Kent snorted and muttered, “Speak for yourself.”

Jack drew back, concerned, and Kent wished he could swallow his tongue. “How do you want to handle this? With the team?” 

Kent sighed and felt Bitty snuggle in closer, like he was trying to crawl inside, to get away from the problems of the real world, and he ran through his options here. He could keep it quiet, brush off that dance like it was some sort of performative piece, a stick-it-to-the-guys who were giving his friend crap. But then he’d have to run with that, have to keep his hands to himself, have to keep his expression neutral when Bits bit his lip, have to do all the crap he’d left Vegas for in the first place. But this was all earlier than he’d planned, either way. He didn’t really know the team yet, not in the bone-deep way that came from the long slog. But…Zimms did. 

He pressed a kiss to Bits’ golden hair and asked Zimms, “How does the team feel about—” he didn’t want to ask in front of Bits, in case the answer was one he didn’t need to hear, but they needed at least a basic plan now, so he just dropped his gaze down at Bits. 

Jack did him the honor of sincerely considering the question, and Kent breathed out a small relief. Finally, he answered, “It took some of the guys a bit longer to get used to it, but they don’t make any trouble now. And the new guys— well, they’ll adjust. You know how it is, the strongest personalities set the tone, and the core is 100% at our backs.” 

Kent pressed his cheek to the top of Bits’ head and rubbed. Bitty snorted a laugh into his collar, something which sounded a lot like “Sure, Kit,” which he magnanimously ignored. Instead, he asked, “Do you think it would make a difference that I’d be _in_ the locker room, not just— adjacent?” 

Jack ran his hand up and down Kent’s back as he thought. “I don’t think so. I really don’t. I mean, maybe it’d be different if they didn’t know you yet, but you’ve been working with us almost daily for the last month, and they know how much the team means to you. But, euh, well—to be honest, I don’t think many of them would actually be that surprised?”

Kent straightened and glared. “What, have I been acting too much like a twink?” 

Bits gave him a _look_ and muttered, “Twunk.” Kent pinched his side and Bits flailed with a yelp. 

Jack laughed that bone-dry, “Haha. No, I mean, it’s just been that much more obvious to me, but—Kent, you kinda look at Bits like—like how Bits looks at pumpkin coffee, or how Tater looks at blueberry pie.” 

Bits flushed scarlet and buried his face in Kent’s neck again. Kent laughed and cupped the back of his head, loving the sharp/soft way his shaved hair prickled his fingers. “What about you, Zimms? I mean, it’s one thing for the team to know you like dick, or, well—at least like men? But— poly?” 

Zimms shook his head. “I’m ok telling a few trusted people, but—I've never really thought this was any of their business, you know? This is—just ours, for once.”

And Kent nodded, not surprised. Then he squeezed the back of Bits’ neck and asked, “What about you, bud? Are you ok with telling the Falcs we’re together?” 

Bitty pressed his lips together, a bit distressed. “I don’t want you thinking you have to out yourself just on my account, Kenny.”

Kent cradled the back of his head. “No, Bits, trust me. It’s not for you—not just for you, though damn, with how much the guys like you it might help my case, or—” he blanched, “or else it’ll be like you have two dozen angry overprotective older brothers, oh sweet Jesus—” Zimms snorted and smacked the back of his head. “Nah, bud, I came here to be able to come out.”

The smile froze on Bits’ face, and he peeped, “ _—Out_ , out?” 

Kent cupped his cheek and stroked his thumb over his jaw. “Out out. I’m working with George and PR on a timeline, probably at the end of this season, give the fans the chance to get used to me first.” He tried to smirk charmingly, but Bits looked so scared. 

“But, oh god— _oh god_ , they’ll really be gunning for you then—” 

“Shh, come ‘ere bud. I’ll be good. I’ll be _so_ good.” He pulled him close, matching breaths. “I can’t wait for this, do you know? I’m so excited. It’ll be worth it.” 

Bits sat up and wiped at his eyes, but nodded, “Okay sugar pie.” 

He didn’t say anything else, so Kent prompted, “Okay to…what? That I’m coming out next summer? Or—”

“To all of it,” Bits laughed wetly, and Kent ducked down to kiss him, soft and lingering and full of promise. And finally, finally, Bits pressed his hands to Kent’s chest and said, “Alright, we’ve got guests waiting, lord.”

Jack smirked down at them and asked, “Want me to go out first and give you a few minutes, like we haven’t been holed up together?” 

“No, lord no,” Bits snickered. “That never works. No, we’ll bring out the cake, and everyone will be so distracted they won’t remember that we disappeared in the first place.” 

Kent huffed a laugh and couldn’t resist pulling him back in for one more kiss. 

 

Bits ended up carrying the massive sheet cake himself, no matter how much a fuss Kenny and Jack kicked up. His laughing face was lit by the glow of a firetrap, because he was and always _would be_ a little shit, and he’d completely covered the cake with candles like it was Jack’s 111th birthday. The crowded patio broke out into cheers when they saw him, and Falcs shoved each other out of the way. Someone started singing before Bits even set the cake down, and Zimms hurried to sit. Shitty nudged Kent and ordered, “Get in the frame, quick.”

Kent didn’t stop to question, he just collared Bits and lent down so they flanked Jack. Then Shitty snapped the photo and gave a thumbs-up, and they ducked around the table to watch. The caterwauling singing ended with falsettos and applause, and Jack took a ridiculously big breath, winked at Bitty, and blew out all the candles. Well, all of them but two. And Kent smirked at Zimms as Bitty leaned back against his chest, and smoke swirled as Jack puffed out the last two candles. The speakers started piping music again, and Bits leapt forward to clear the candles and cut the cake. 

And later, when the whole thing had been devoured and everyone had thanked Bits reverently, Kent looked around and realized that no one had noticed that Bits had been tucked against his side the whole time. At least, no one was treating it like it was anything special, even though having Bits’ strong thigh pressed tight against his beneath the table had been its own special torment, just like how his golden hair sometimes brushed his jaw if he turned just the right way, or how Bits had kept stealing bites off his plate and he’d have to retaliate, and how could they not see how his world was suddenly so much brighter? 

“What’s wrong, sugar pie?” Bits asked above his beer. 

Kent just shook his head in disbelief, “Nobody noticed.” 

Bitty looked around, brows raised. “Huh. Well, I mean, they _are_ a bunch of hopeless hockey players—” He giggled madly when Kent snatched away his beer and dragged him into a headlock. 

Then Kent hauled him into his lap and plonked his snapback onto Bitty’s well-ruffled hair. Bits blinked up at him, a bit shocked, and Kent lent down to kiss him. 

Cat-calls rang out around them, and Tetris yelled from the other side of the patio, “FINE, PARSER!” Bits giggled helplessly into Kent’s shoulder as everyone laughed and called out congratulations. 

Then the speakers started blaring the opening fanfare of _Crazy in Love_ , and Bitty screeched, leapt to his feet, and dragged Kent with him onto the dance floor. Kent followed, their hands clasped together tight, his heart feeling like it could fly right out his chest. 

They danced, just another pair in the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on the assorted Falcs:
> 
> Olli Ojala goes by Oh-yay because _perkele_ , that j is pronounced like y, but the Americans always get it wrong. (Ei tippa tapa means 'a drop won't kill you' but, bud, Tater's Russian vodka might)
> 
> Tetris = Jean Rosario-Tetreault  
> Guido Tenesi  
> Jerry Houser  
> Lindsay Crouse  
> Jennifer Warren... all were cast members in Slapshot :]
> 
> Annnnd the credit for Kit Purrson goes to.... [Coby the cat](https://www.instagram.com/cobythecat)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Despacito [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931294) by [61Below](https://archiveofourown.org/users/61Below/pseuds/61Below), [read by Khashana (Khashana)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khashana/pseuds/read%20by%20Khashana)




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